to stand
in your arms
long and slender
reaching toward the sky
the sun glowing on your skin
the memories i carry
made long before the wildfire
destroyed it all.

you thought i chose him but i had no choice at all.
in my heart, i never forgot
you and i in your bed for the first time.
the way the hair fell down to your chin
hiding those blue eyes.
that townhouse. the silk necklace you made for me.
kissing at parties. holding hands in your car.

frozen forever just like that in my mind.

my only crime;
loving what i couldn't have and having what i couldn't love.
never the same love twice. never like you.

i will never smell your hair again,
never touch my legs to yours.
i try so hard to remember
your laugh, your sweet voice
singing the songs we loved
listening and wondering
if we could ever be good enough
but
you always were.

it doesn't seem that i can get high enough
                                                                          or low
to find a reason for b r e a k i n g this cycle
                                                        cycle          cycle
                                                                  cycle
of trying to become drinking buddies with my demons
or unconscious of the fact that i'm slowly letting my passions
                                               die.
i'm empty
on the ins
ide but at
least i loo
k ok.

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

I write down my thoughts so they can breathe.
Don't mistake them for poetry.
I write to prove to myself that even on days I awake with my own blood on my hands.
I still am sane.
Or at least something similar to that.
Because if I was truly sane I would hate myself.
And I grew tired of that many months ago.

And in my dreams I was flying & jumping on clouds of white,
This is where i wanted to be
My soul deemed through rays full of infinite bright
The happiest that I've ever been.